


Tangibility

by riverbed



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Alcoholism, M/M, Oral Sex, dread and paranoia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 10:20:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4301031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverbed/pseuds/riverbed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bennet wrestles with Jackson's abuse of drink and with his own urge to run from anyone getting too close.</p><p>Set beginning of series 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tangibility

“Jackson! Wake up!”

Bennet Drake examined his colleague, slumped upright against the corner wall of his home practice. It was a fitting spot – more cozy, admittedly, than the police station deadroom, and more inviting to live patients, certainly, but equipped with the same cold metal instruments and clinical anatomy charts that had outfitted his previous station.

When tapping Jackson lightly with the toe of his boot didn't rouse him, Drake stooped over him and smacked him on the cheek with his palm a couple of times. Jackson started, and Drake had to anchor himself to avoid being knocked off-balance by his swing. When the younger man realised who his company was, his demeanor shifted, and he grinned. “Drake,” he slurred, a difficult thing to do with a one-syllable name. “'Ow'd you get in?”

“The door was wide open, you sod. Anyone could have wandered in off the street.” Drake was holding his ground, his hand still on Jackson's jaw. He stared at him, took him in, sweat-soaked hair and bloody upper lip. “What did you get up to last night, then?”

Jackson shrugged. “Dunno.” 

Bennet scoffed. “You're lucky the Inspector sent me to fetch you and didn't find you in such a state himself.”

Jackson rolled his eyes. “You know I don't give a shit what your damn Inspector thinks. And I ain't spendin' my day at the station today, neither.”

“Captain, Captain, Captain, why are you always so bloody argumentative?” Bennet stooped further and hooked his arms under the Captain's armpits, heaving him up to standing. Jackson swayed on his feet, leaning hard onto Drake's shoulder.

“Gawd, Drake. What if I don't want to spend my day with dead bodies for once?”

“It's not as if you get along so well with live ones,” Drake said offhandedly, unthinkingly, and it hung in the air for a moment. Stupid. Jackson had managed to steady himself, and now his tongue traveled out over his bottom lip as he gazed, glossy-eyed, at his colleague.

“Maybe not in a vocal-conversation sense, Sergeant, but I think it'd be unfair to write me off completely.”

“Are you hungover or still drunk?”

“Does it matter?” Jackson tilted his head and leaned in, breath hot on Drake's neck, and Drake thought maybe it didn't, not really, as he felt Jackson's fingertips move his jacket back, baring his shoulder.

But Jackson was drunk, he assumed, and it did matter. He cared about the man, after all – no matter how combative they were with one another, Drake was sensitive and grew attached easily, and he had missed the Captain in their combined absence, and whenever they did this, he berated himself. He knew it would likely be different if the American weren't intoxicated. He knew Jackson preferred the fairer sex in his rare sober moments, and he argued with himself over how real an arrangement like theirs could be, all variables considered. But it certainly felt real with Jackson's lips pressed against the pale skin of his clavicle, his hand up under his shirt against his stomach, his hips pressed against his own.

“Relax, Sergeant,” Jackson leered above him, and he did his best to heed the advice, rolling his shoulders back and in doing so opened the expanse of his neck to the doctor's attentions. He nipped a small trail into the soft skin above his collarbone, and Drake moaned, and Jackson chuckled warmly against him, pressing his tongue into the indentations. Drake could feel his cock stirring and silently cursed the surgeon's knowledge of anatomy, though he supposed he couldn't blame this sort of aptitude on textbooks.

Jackson pushed him the few feet to the wall and broke away from his neck, looking at the taller man with his brow furrowed in curiosity, studying his expression, his opened mouth, his eyes large and dilated. Drake felt rather like he was being sized up, and reflected on how the only time Jackson seemed to shut up was when he was staring lust in the face.

Jackson lay his palm flat against the wall next to Drake's head and leaned back in, closing the distance between their bodies with a slow kiss that sent his head spinning. Drake did know how to kiss, damn it, weaving his tongue against his own and burying his fingers in the surgeon's hair to draw him closer. Jackson shoved the rest of his partner's jacket off using his free hand and planted it up under his shirt again, running it up along his side, and he felt Drake shiver under it as he gripped his hip tightly. He broke their kiss and exhaled through his nostrils against his colleague's face, smiling, his eyes still shut. “I'm not actually drunk, you know,” he said quietly. “I was last night, but not now. I can tell it's been bothering you.” He cut off Drake's denials before they started, pinching a bit of fat on his side affectionately.

Drake brought a hand down, the other still tangled in the doctor's hair, and ghosted a knuckle across his Adam's apple, finally coming to cradle his jaw. “What're you doing to yourself, darlin'?” He watched Jackson's eyes open and look at him, sadder than he had hoped, and the smile fade from his face, defeated.

“I am coping,” he said.

“Don't know if I'd call this coping.” He drew his hand up further, resting it against Jackson's cheek, the same place he'd slapped earlier in attempt to wake him up. Jackson brought his hand up from its spot on Drake's side to cover his hand with his own, nuzzling tenderly into the touch.

“Drake,” Jackson said, his voice husky and tired, “I know you worry, and I know you think I should stop.” He pressed his lips against the back of Drake's hand. “I know I don't deserve your pity or your guidance. But I appreciate them.” He looked Drake dead in the eye again. “And right now, your guidance would certainly help me, because your hand on my cock, Drake, I can't do that myself. I can't tie myself up in knots the way you do. Not even the drink can do that to me, darlin'. In fact it impairs.” He smiled again. “I'm always only at most slightly pliable when we do this. Never really loaded. I wouldn't be able to perform if I were.”

Drake wasn't comforted by this, but his groin was still needy for attention, and he decided to push the issue aside for the time being as Jackson pressed against him again, rolling his hips, and it was all the Sergeant could do not to cry out as that sweet friction teased his cock harder. He could feel Jackson's own stiff member pressed against his leg through their respective pairs of trousers, and he gripped Jackson's bicep as he arched to meet his movement. He felt relaxed again, right and at-ease, if a little lightheaded as blood from his head rushed to his crotch. He knew what he did with Jackson was technically illegal, and that in light of their posts it was ironic at best, but he also knew it was home for both of them, that their dysfunction fused most perfectly when they were tied together in sweat and sin. 

And suddenly he could think of nothing more important than Jackson's clothes being off and he began working the buttons on his loud, tacky, paisley, decidedly American shirt. Jackson squirmed as Drake cupped his cock through his pants, rubbing the heel of his palm against what he discerned as the head. He pulled Drake backward, off the wall and through the double doors to his bedroom, and tossed the Sergeant to the bed.

“Bet this is much more comfortable than your wood floor.”

“Shut up.” Jackson straddled him and made quick work of the flies on his trousers, then the same on his drawers, and Drake stared as his partner's member sprung free, darkened and full. He felt his own cock stir in its confinement, his breathing heaving and his body temperature raised. He felt feverish, on-edge, anxious for release. The past few weeks' stress had piled on him more than he had realised, and his need compounded, and he rolled his hips up to gain contact with the surgeon's bottom.

Jackson leered at him. “Eager, are we?” 

“For Chrissake, Jackson, I can only play along for so long.”

“Oh, I know.” He pulled his cravat from around his neck and pinned Drake's arms above his head, tying them together at the wrists.

“Are you sure you were in the Army, and not the Navy, Captain?” Drake questioned, testing this new bond and finding the knot surprisingly sound.

“Would I ever lie to you, Benito?” Jackson's voice was singsong, and he grinned, pleased in watching Drake tug his wrists against the tie.

“Maybe not, but you constantly surprise me. I think you get off doing so.”

“Damn right, Drake. Yer damn right.” He punctuated this with another harsh roll of his hips, promptly making Drake shut up as the hard line of his pubic bone ran up against the underside of the older man's cock through his trousers and he moaned loudly, only going quiet when Jackson pressed his mouth against him once more, his hands running across his now-bared chest beneath his half-open shirt.

Drake shimmied himself upward under him so that his groin lined up directly with Jackson's, deciding that two could play at the game Jackson was gunning for. He arched and groaned as Jackson kissed him, Jackson's bare cock bobbing between them as the linen of Drake's trousers brushed against his balls.

“Jesus, Drake, you're rushing me.”

“Can't help it. And anyway, you have the advantage; do what you wish.”

Jackson growled and leaned back in, lacing all ten of his fingers in Drake's hair and yanking his head back roughly as he trailed down his torso with his mouth, pausing just below his navel to pay particular attention to the area directly above his buttons. He licked, nipped at and blew on the skin there, heating then cooling, challenging Drake to sensation after sensation, and none of it where he really wanted. Drake realised he could still bring his arms down and did so, placing his hands on the younger man's head as he continued his ministrations on his stomach. The heat just under where he was working was tightening, and Drake was losing his focus, bucking up to gain contact with Jackson as he all-too-slowly undid his trousers, his fingertips apparently lighter than air as they brushed only slightly against him as he did so. He'd had far too much practice, Drake decided.

“Jesus, Yankee. Suck me off.”

“Demanding! I keep telling you to relax.” Jackson's mouth was so close to his cock as he spoke, he could feel the heat of his breath on it. He made utter light of this desperate situation by mouthing at his friend's hip over the insubstantial cotton covering his drawers offered. “You love to be edged.”

He shook his head frantically. “Been too long. Need it now.” Drake tightened his grip on the American's hair, and if he could have seen Jackson he would have seen him practically shrug. He tugged his underwear down past his hips, Drake arching to let them slide past his backside, hissing as cool air surrounded his cock, and then again as Jackson replaced it immediately with the wet heat of his mouth. He dragged his tongue across the tip obscenely and hollowed his cheeks, building pressure and heat to insane degrees before he would pull off to trace the curves of Drake's hips and stomach with his nails. 

“Oh, you're insufferable,” Drake moaned, throwing his head back insistently into the down blanket, as if it would do any good. His arms had retaken their position above his head, as having them down was uncomfortable more than anything else. Jackson looked up at him and admired the way his upper arms stretched taut over their lean musculature. He was an admirer of anatomy, after all, and Drake had some of the best. “And yet you suffer willingly,” he said.

Bennet looked down to glare at him, but ended up watching, enthralled, instead as Jackson's mouth enveloped him again, bobbing his head up and down to swallow his entire length again and again, and their eyes met just when Drake was buried to the hilt, the tip of his cock at the back of the younger man's throat, and they stared at each other as Jackson moaned and swallowed around him, Drake's eyelids fluttering as the pressure in his belly built. “Jackson... I'm too close...” he warned, wanting this to last despite his earlier pleas.

But Jackson kept at him, using his hand to massage his testicles as he continued his attentions on his dick, and Drake was done for as the surgeon dragged his tongue once more along the underside of the head, at that most sensitive place under his foreskin. His back arched sharply, but Jackson quickly shoved his hips flat to the bed with his palms, forcing him to stay put. His mouth stayed on him while he rode out his orgasm, and Bennet gazed down at him in reverie as he felt Jackson suck around him again and again, swallowing down what he could of his ejaculate, the remainder leaking out onto his chin as he slowly pulled his mouth off him, his hand remaining in place to pump the last few drops of his pleasure from him, and then, despite Drake's protests, he laid the stiff tip of his tongue against the hypersensitive head again, licking up the last few pieces of evidence as Drake thrashed and cried out. He was being tortured, and yet he could feel himself hardening all over again in spite of himself, his stamina suddenly that of a man 10 years his junior. Jackson studied him as he finally let him come down from the high, slowly releasing his pressure on his dick and crawling up beside Drake to replace his hands against his chest, rubbing in small circles, grounding him. “You doin' okay?” he asked, noticeably concerned. It was only then that the Sergeant noticed the unmistakable wetness of tears against his own cheeks. 

“Y-yes.” Drake tried to focus on the reality of Jackson's palms against his chest as he felt himself flush hotly in his cheeks, embarrassment coursing through him insistently just as orgasm had only moments before. “Just... intense,” he offered, deciding against telling the truth – the take of paranoia that had come to him in the throes, the fact that he couldn't stop thinking about Jackson's drinking, the fact that for the past fortnight he couldn't get the image of him facedown in a deserted alley, a victim he and Reid had to investigate, out of his head, and that it was only with the exertion in his body that the vision had momentarily left him, and that its rushing back post-release had emotionally exhausted him, and that it was all he could do to not wrap himself around Jackson at this moment and sob, that the thought of losing another of his friends threatened to break him, that he kept Jackson so close in large part to remind himself that he was real, that they were both real and here.

He tried to gather his wits and stared back at Jackson, facing off with the still-heady arousal hanging in the room and his own emotions, and with the grey-blue expanse of iris holding his gaze. In the end, Jackson's panting as he brought himself to completion won out, and Drake rolled over slightly to nuzzle the place between Jackson's shoulder and neck as his partner arched and groaned his name, spilling his hot release over his own hand and belly.

After recovering for a moment, Jackson reached up and untied Drake, who was still somewhat lost in his own head. He gave his shoulder a playful shove as he rolled himself back on top, leaning down to look him in the eye again. “Doin' okay in there, Benito?” He had a smirk on that would elicit a real smack if Drake's arms hadn't been so sore, if he hadn't felt so... drained in general.

“I'm well, yes.” He pressed a chaste kiss against Jackson's cheek. “Inspector Reid will be expectin' us, y'know.”

“Let him wait,” Jackson insisted. “I don't want to fuck you and then skedaddle. I'd rather you lie with me for a while, Benny, I really would.” It was rare to hear the Captain so affectionate, and it took Drake aback, especially when he considered his recent musings on the nature of their relationship, of their reality. He had actually been quite happy with Jackson not being drunk during each of their encounters, and look, now – he found he was actually wanted for more than a lay.

The Good Lord should watch how much contentedness he dished out. Drake might get used to the stuff, and that never went well.


End file.
